


Haunted

by PumpkinSpiceHimbo



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Porn, Assault, Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Dubious Consent, Hallucinations, Head Injury, Hiding Medical Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Instability, Sexual Assault, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27746653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinSpiceHimbo/pseuds/PumpkinSpiceHimbo
Summary: The Lions' reunion at Garreg Mach was bittersweet and Sylvain finds himself struggling with his memories and those who reside within them. He searches for Dimitri, and when he discovers him, must confront the intersection of his past and present.Written for #FE3HWanksgiving, prompt Voice/Mirror
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Glenn Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Miklan
Comments: 1
Kudos: 29
Collections: FE3H Wanksgiving Weekend





	Haunted

‘ _There are ghosts in these halls._ ’

The sound of Felix’ voice still echoed in his head, uncharacteristically soft for a moment. It wasn’t so unusual now as it had been, but it chilled him all the same. The cold façade of the abandoned stone, pockmarked and moss-covered from years untouched and forgotten, seemed to leech up through his boots and fur-lined gambeson, setting his hair on end. Garreg Mach was balmy compared to Faerghus even on its worst days, but still he shivered, expecting to see their breath.

Mercedes had chuckled at him when he said as much over dinner, the dining hall once again full of people, bathed in pale golden light from the candles and oil they managed to scrape together. He could see Annette a few seats down from her, trying not to look as if she was eavesdropping, obviously rigid from what Mercedes murmured to him. Mercedes seemed to already know, and this show was for Annette, at least partially.

‘ _When hunting ghosts, that is a surefire way to tell if one is in the room with you,_ ’ she had said cheerily. ‘ _A change in temperature, especially if you can see your breath, or if frost appears on the metal and stone, means you’re dealing with a ghost._ ’

She knew a lot about ghosts, or at least was very adept at spinning ghost tales from the air, and delighted in talking about all the different sorts of ghosts that may have brushed by them in the hallway just then. He watched Annette from the corner of his eye, Ashe eventually joining her as he heard the topic at hand, and they both sat trembling as their stew went cold before them. Ashe was the first to remember he should be eating and he screamed when the broth touched his lips.

Sylvain would be lying if he said he didn’t miss this chaos.

The chaos they’d all been so steeped in had finally, at least for a moment, become less dire. Things felt like they should again, though it was hard to gather enough wood to heat their rooms and the mouldered sheets left much to be desired. They were used to camping in suboptimal conditions now, and the cold of Faerghus never bothered him much anyway. They all agreed to pile into the dining hall together, sleeping like puppies by the hearth for a night or two until they could get the monastery running enough for a few huge tubs of linens to be laundered and a handful of rooms refurnished.

‘ _Just like the old days,_ ’ Ingrid said, smiling slightly. She didn’t mean that, not really. She was thinking back further, to when they were even younger, a pile of noble whelps by the large fire in the receiving room, huddled under a few of the massive horse blankets reserved to accommodate a pegasus’ wings, whispering as the light painted their faces in flickering shadows and swirls. He was older than them, but had always preferred their company, as Glenn was so often paired off with Miklan, whom he had avoided when possible. Miklan was there that night, and had set out to scare them, seeding wraiths and phantoms in their mind as they, too, had let their dinner grow cold in slack-jawed fear. Glenn knew by then what those sorts of interjections foretold and stayed up long enough to hear Miklan’s plotting come to fruition. He came out, sword in hand, the soft glow of Aegis setting him ablaze in the night. He vanquished the demon then and there, voice proud and strong, as if they had planned this farce, but his brown eyes were narrow and fierce, and his sword-edge too sharp for play. Miklan ran away as he always did, and his gaze turned only for a moment, to remind Sylvain that Glenn would not always be there to save him, and that there was plenty of time left once they reached the Gautier territory for revenge.

The shield weighed the blanket down once they were all huddled together. Ingrid lay across Glenn’s chest, pink-cheeked and sedated, her golden hair catching the soft glow, carrying its magical aura beyond the carved bone’s reach. Felix stubbornly sandwiched himself between Glenn and Dimitri, his face only inches from Ingrid’s, and Dimitri’s face ended up buried in his mess of dark hair, an arm laid across his slender waist, hand tucked discreetly in Glenn’s hand. Sylvain was on the other side of Ingrid, his back to the fire though he couldn’t stand the direct heat, protected in a long, lean line by Glenn’s arm where it curled around his shoulders, reassuring him in a way no one but he need understand.

That was what she was remembering as she saw them all clustering together by the meager, ill-tempered flames, the rotten wood too wet and mealy to properly catch, their cloaks and blankets barely enough to cover them individually. As the others settled down, she waited patiently until Felix arrived, seemingly summoned by her vigil. He didn’t say much, though his eyes lingered on Sylvain as he took his place on the outside of the pile, Ingrid facing him with her arms crossed, her nose red and eyes squeezed tight against the waking world. His swords lay opposite of her, peeking from beneath their piled cloaks, his hand never straying from them.

How could you tell if the chill was a ghost, or if maybe it was just that terrible feeling of loneliness and isolation, the real and unavoidable truth that there was nothing right in the world?

Sylvain mused on that as he left. He could hear Felix shift as if to chase him down, but Ingrid made a soft sound in her uneasy sleep that settled him, unwilling to sacrifice her small comfort to satisfy his curiosity. If pressed, Sylvain would’ve offered an easy excuse that would have done nothing to quell Felix’ stubborn fretting, but may have satisfied him for now. He was glad he didn’t need to.

Still, Felix’ voice found him as he wandered, echoing from the walls.

‘ _There are ghosts in these halls._ ’

And in their hearts, and their minds.

He brought no light with him, the cast of the Ethereal Moon more than enough as it spilled through the courtyards and open rooftops in kind. He joked with himself about it, Mercedes telling him that often ghosts preferred to be met alone, and often would not talk if there was a proper light source. She also recommended bringing parchment and charcoal, in case the ghosts wished to write to him, or perhaps draw arcane symbols that would doom them all. He brought no parchment, but the idea still amused him, especially once Ashe began pleading with her to stop speaking of ghosts in such circumstances, though he obviously would tolerate such talk no other times or places any easier.

Sylvain wasn’t afraid of ghosts. It was the living he knew to be the most dangerous.

The walk to the cathedral wasn’t one he had made often, finding any excuses he could to avoid the overbearing attempts to make him change his ways and turn toward piety, or whatever. He tried not to even imagine the chastising, as he was certain it would match his father’s uncomfortably. Something about crests and noble obligations, something about gifts bestowed by the Goddess and besmirching her name. He swore once to Seteth that he would feel appropriately guilty on his own without intermittent Church-led shaming, which did nothing but frustrate the holy man. To his part, he did as he promised, but he supposed that wouldn’t make Seteth any happier with him.

He wondered, idly, what had happened to him, if perhaps it was his ghost he’d felt before.

The cathedral was somehow more welcoming like this, dust perpetually moving through the air, catching the moonlight that lit the rubble. It could be peaceful, he supposed, provide succor where some had never found it here before. Perhaps that was why Dimitri refused to leave.

… until now.

Sylvain had expected to see the black stain of his prince before the altar, as before, but he was missing entirely. Maybe that was why things had seemed more palatable in those first few moments he’d set foot inside. He hesitated then, eyes combing the shadows, moving across the pews to see where Dimitri had gone. He ignored the bile in his throat, the slight panic that he had escaped when Felix finally gave up his post.

Should he call out to him? His throat tightened at the thought, the idea of his voice echoing around him one that he would rather avoid. No one would hear him this far away, probably not even Dimitri, and what good would it do if it did? Dimitri was no dog to be whistled for, he was…

It didn’t matter. There was no point to it, regardless.

He moved across the wide ring of moonlight, standing where he had last seen Dimitri. There was a mess of half-prints there made of mud and blood and who knew what else that clung to the prince’s soles. His cloak was torn and ragged, but still dragged the ground, and there were streaks from that too, the hem saturated with filth. It didn’t look like a cloak to Sylvain, though he hadn’t felt it the right time to ask anyone else yet. It looked like one of the banners that flanked the halls in the throne room, torn down and refashioned into a makeshift cloak, the mess of furs on his back hodge-podged from countless wild-caught animals in a haphazard patchwork to eventually replace it. Anything was possible, really.

The footprints and drag of his cloak wandered off to the right, and Sylvain found himself following the trail, his heart beating faster than he would have liked. It didn’t lead toward the courtyard, thankfully, but toward the small room with the statues of the saints, if they were still there. Perhaps Dimitri had chosen that place to hole up for the night, perhaps some divine protection or otherworldly comfort could touch him there under their proud gaze. Dimitri had often found comfort in religion before. Even in his current state, perhaps it could reach him now.

The sound was soft at first, and a relief, in a way. It promised a reward for his tracking, something he could tell Felix when he returned and found him awake, unable to sleep without Sylvain accounted for, but still piled with the rest. It was rhythmic but unsteady, a strange, wet sound paired with a soft metallic scrape at uneven intervals. It was familiar in all of its strangeness, but he couldn’t place it. The closer he got, the more he noticed the ragged breathing, almost choking sound. He paused at the threshold, listening, holding his own breath.

And then it stopped. The silence ballooned around him, so all-encompassing that he would swear he could hear the dust settling on the statues. He swallowed, heart racing, and took another step forward, scanning the darkness where he’d be certain the sound had been. Even accustomed to the dim light, he could make out nothing, though the stench promised he’d found something despite it. He spared a glance behind himself as he fully entered the room, just in case he was mistaken as to the direction, maybe hearing the echo and not the sound.

The wall rushed forward to meet him, the wind knocked entirely from his lungs as he hit it, his fur-lined gambeson only barely cushioning him from the impact. His head cracked against the smooth stone, his vision dissolving instantly into blackness and starbursts. He sagged, hands pressed against the cold wall, desperate to keep himself upright, to find his wits against this unexpected attack.

The smell was putrid, overwhelming, possibly the only thing that kept him conscious. It had the sharp, high smell of blood that cut through the miasma of rot. It smelled of grave dirt, of worms and decay, of mildew and neglect, and of human filth, the grime of the flesh left upon unwashed skin, of sweat and secretions.

He became aware, dully, that he was being spoken to, though he could not quite process what was being said. It was nothing kind, that much was clear by the tone, a low growl like that of a wolf as it circled its prey. He could almost make out the shape of his attacker, a darkness deeper than he could perceive properly, silhouetted by the pale light in the threshold. It seemed huge from where he crumpled into the corner, dwarfed onto by the saints around them on their polished marble cubes.

Maybe he should’ve prayed more after all. Maybe they would be more amenable in his time of greatest need.

The thing drew closer, blotting out the light as it towered over him. Its hand twisted in his hair, jerking him upright, his feet scrambling instinctively to brace himself.

‘ _There are ghosts in these halls._ ’

And surely this was the one meant for him.

There was finally a thought, words of his own voice in his head, coherently and confidently spoken.

‘ _It’s Miklan._ ’

Miklan, rotted and shambling, walked here for revenge from the Tower of Black Wind, possessed and drawn by the call of the Lance. Sylvain knew that call all too well, the way it whispered to him, the way it shuddered under his hand. When he released it, it whined and pleaded for his return, ground against itself, haunted him in the night. That was what brought this corpse here to Garreg Mach, this fetid and stinking thing, to touch it once more and feel it sigh, to take the blood it was so denied so that it could never let it go again.

It was a nightmare made real, and Sylvain could feel the sound he made more than he could hear it. It was one he made alone at night, trapped in his dreams, and it was the one he’d made back then as a child, trapped in reality. The thing said something in response, something that sounded like it could be mocking.

“Please,” Sylvain babbled, his lips and tongue numb and clumsy from the impact. “Please don’t… I… I can’t… You… Please…”

If he could think clearly, he’d be ashamed of himself. Childish pleading, unfinished fears spoken aloud, and knowing it would all fall on cruel ears. His body shook suddenly, convulsing against the wall he was pinned to, and he could taste the blood in his mouth. His legs fell from beneath him, his full weight pulling on his hair, the sharp pain sending his eyes rolling back into his head. Without thinking, his arms reached forward, trying to do something, anything at all, to change the course of events. He met cold steel, battered and chipped, and he clawed feebly at it for purchase.

“P-please… I di… dn’t… do an… anything...”

His hand swung down, strength wasted entirely, and brushed something warm and slick. In an instant, he was released, the creature hissing as it retreated out of reach, and he sank to the floor in a heap. His head lolled back and he could make out the dark smear of his own blood on the wall.

Miklan had done that before, he remembered. Not to him, but to one of his supposed gang, just before he had left for good. Sylvain had been outside, playing with a couple of hunting hounds, delaying his return as long as possible. The bandit lurched toward him, blood cascading down his back, staining his white shirt and matting his long hair. He was calling for help, and, in a strange moment, addressed Sylvain directly, telling him in a slurred frenzy not to go inside. He later found out what had happened, or something like the truth. Miklan was petitioning again for control over the Gautier forces, using his gang as proof of his capability, and had been denied. As they were preparing to leave again, the man had said something he thought was clever, and Miklan had been unimpressed. He’d lifted him by the throat and beat his head against the stone until the other men separated them and he fled, stumbling into the courtyard in his desperation.

Sylvain’s head lolled against his shoulder and he gazed up to see him now, to judge what horror would befall him with no one to separate them and rush to his aid.

But it was not Miklan standing above him, he realized slowly. It was Dimitri, his halo of pale hair catching in the light. No zombie or Relic-ghoul, just Dimitri, feral though he was, bent awkwardly as he looked Sylvain over, still growling softly. Sylvain’s eyes searched for details, only able to pull out pieces of contrast in his dim vision, only able to piece together simple thoughts as the words slipped away as he ordered them.

There was a pale swatch of skin before him, stark against the blackened steel of his armour and dark linen beneath. He stared at it until Dimitri spoke again, calling his attention upward.

“What are you staring at?” he demanded.

“Your cock,” Sylvain mumbled simply.

And it was, he knew, the fear ebbing away by the moment. That was the sound he had heard before, the wet slap and shuffle of armour. That was the pungent, human smell that seemed to burn his nostrils now, the smell of sweat and sex. Dimitri had been hiding, masturbating alone under the reproachful gaze of the saints.

Dimitri looked down at his cock as dully as Sylvain, as if he’d forgotten it in his rage. It stood between them in the cold air, still hard and slick, his gloved hand catching the light as he turned it to examine the remnants of his pre-cum.

“It’s okay…” Sylvain muttered, speaking unformed thoughts. “It’s okay… I don’t mind…”

It was another slice of memory he’d fallen into, this time not of blood and screaming, this time soft and placating. It was his bedroom, dark and cold, just before dawn when the embers of the night’s fire finally gave up. The fear was the same, the way his heart skipped frantically, his thoughts jumbled. He kicked himself into the corner of his bed where it met the walls, sitting atop the scrunched pillows, heels dug into the mattress as hard as he could manage. Yet still, Miklan loomed over him, and Sylvain knew precisely why.

It wasn’t the first time this cruelty had been visited upon him, and he was desperate to make it as swift and painless as he could. He found the words used against him, twisted them to be his own, to manipulate and suggest, to promise and comply. It worked then, for what it could possibly do, and it echoed into the present where he hoped it would spare him again.

“...it’s fine… really… go ahead…”

Dimitri seemed to think on this, looking between Sylvain and his hand, then down to his cock. He took hold of it, raising his gaze back to his victim.

“...see?” Sylvain mumbled, hoping that he was smiling somehow, though he couldn’t be sure if he was managing it. “I’m here with you… that’s good enough… right?”

“Leave,” Dimitri grunted, though he made no move to allow such.

“No, no…” Sylvain argued weakly, his tongue dry. “We can do this… right? It’s okay…”

He could simply allow Dimitri to masturbate with him, to prevent anything else. What else, he wasn’t sure of. Another attack perhaps. Dimitri wasn’t like Miklan, even at his worst. He was cruel to himself above all others, and his impulsive defense was not meant to be so terrible. He didn’t know his own strength, everyone knew that. He just needed to be reminded of it from time to time. He just needed people around him to keep him sane. Ghosts came more readily when one was alone.

There was a time he had suggested they masturbate together. No, several times. Once, it earned him a sharp smack from his father, who found them together with their cocks out. He was disappointed beyond words, except to say sharply, ‘ _I might expect this from Miklan, Sylvain, not you._ ’ The gap between their ages was just enough that Dimitri should not be aware of his own cock, or so his father seemed to think. Maybe he hadn’t remembered being a boy, and how much one’s own cock preoccupied oneself even without goading from a friend.

The last few had been at Garreg Mach, a sort of awkward attempt at camaraderie when Dimitri refused to go girl hunting with him. The one time he’d done so was so disastrous, he swore never to fraternize again, and steadfastly hadn’t. It was sad, in a way, and Sylvain felt it his fault for leading Dimitri astray, but how would he ever get better at such things if he never got past his own shame-fueled awkwardness? It would be relaxing, he had promised then, it would take away some of the guilt, it would be something that would deepen their bond.

Dimitri had, of course, refused each offer, blushing all the way to the ears, left unable to look at Sylvain properly until several days had passed. He was so stiff, so polite, so painfully proper, Sylvain should’ve known better than to ask, let alone repeatedly, but he had all the same.

And he would again, to avoid pain, and to relax him, and perhaps to deepen their bond.

“It’s okay,” Sylvain mumbled, managing to get his palms flat on the ground, feeling the dirt and grit dig into his skin. Another small thing to ground him, to help him focus in the present. “I’ll just watch… okay?”

Dimitri was staring at him, his eyes unblinking, waiting for Sylvain to do something, anything, that warranted action. Sylvain barely moved, except to pull his feet out from under him. The vague pain in his legs was becoming sharper as his senses returned, but he made no pretense to get up, or put himself in a position to react. His knees met his chest, back straightening as he scooted against the wall, vulnerable. Some part of him scolded himself, perhaps in Felix’ voice, or Ingrid’s, that he should know better than to be so vulnerable, but his own voice said more confidently that he needed to be vulnerable, and to accept whatever came, to make things quicker and easier.

Dimitri, to his credit, recognized the vulnerability, the unlikelihood of retaliation, or escape, and his hand moved slowly again. A chill ran up his spine, making him cock his head slightly as it reached his neck. He let out a soft sound, somewhere between a growl and a sigh, and his armour resumed its gentle scraping.

“That’s good, right?” Sylvain found himself mumbling, managing a half-smile in his relief. “Feels good, just like that…”

There was no reply from Dimitri except the wet sound of leather on skin, his arousal lubricating the surface once again. Sylvain let his head fall back, eyes nearly shut and too bleary for it to matter, listening to him masturbate. How could he have mistaken that sound? It just seemed too out of place, too impossible to consider. Why would Dimitri be masturbating, and why here and not in some more comfortable place? Was there any actual reason to it? Probably not.

No, it was probably compulsive, like picking a scab, or chewing a lip. It was something subconscious, a means to an end, an itch to be scratched. It wasn’t like seeing all of his former friends and classmates together gave him a boner. Maybe he’d taken to blasphemy in his time in the wilds. Maybe he could only get off if his guilt over masturbation was so intense that it became a fetish. That wasn’t something Sylvain could get into, even if Cethleann was cute enough to wank to. She was too close to the unblinking, reproachful stare of Cichol, and something about Cichol harkened back to all the scoldings from Seteth. Those were decidedly not sexy.

Was this sexy, though? The very idea made Sylvain laugh, a weird, pained laugh that made Dimitri stop his motions, watching him disapprovingly. It took him a few seconds to realize Dimitri was staring at him again and slowly the sound trickled off.

Maybe it should be sexy, he thought absently.

“Don’t stop,” he breathed, letting his eyes close again. “Please…”

That was better. That felt better to say. His mind was clearing enough that he could change the words as they sprung up to him. He didn’t have to say them as they came, didn’t have to indulge the memories that pushed them to his lips. He was in control, even battered as he was, addled and half-conscious. He could make this something better.

He could hear Dimitri start again, slowly, testing him.

“Good,” he cooed, licking his lips, tasting the blood again. “That’s more like it…”

The smile was easier now, whether from his returning senses or because he was falling into a more practiced role, it was hard to say. He sighed, loud enough for Dimitri’s benefit, pleasant and heady for Dimitri’s benefit, the sound he would make as someone first took his cock into their mouth. A sweet relief to urge him on, to harden his cock further, to make him sparkle in the moonlight.

“Dimitr--!”

The name never fully left his mouth, Dimitri’s free hand clamping around his jaw, lifting him once again. This time, Sylvain was able to get his feet beneath him, though they were still weak and unsteady. Still, it was enough to relieve some pressure on his jaw, the vice-grip enough to make him moan in pain and feigned arousal. It was reflexive, as was the embrace he gave Dimitri, draping his arms around him and squeezing as much as he could manage.

“No,” Dimitri rasped, his hand never once stopping, seeming only to quicken as he pinned Sylvain again.

“No names,” Sylvain managed, following well enough to realize where he’d fucked up. This encounter had the same rules as most in his experience, his own hand blotting out his name so often in the past. He understood innately, his hands dragging across the greasy, festering furs, fingers filtering into the matted blond hair. He pulled Dimitri’s head to his shoulder, leaning his own as much as he could manage to touch their temples together, breathing a soft moan against his ear.

Slowly, Dimitri’s grip relaxed, his ragged breathing returning, as his hand moved to press against Sylvain’s chest instead, keeping him in place.

“Good,” Sylvain soothed, arching slightly against the pressure, just as much as his legs would allow. He could feel the back of Dimitri’s hand brush against him, the scarred metal snagging threads as it grazed the linen. It was fine. His breastplate should cover it. He could snip off the threads, or pull them out completely, whichever seemed easier. That was for future Sylvain to sort out, when his head wasn’t swimming, when he didn’t feel so close to vomiting, when he wasn’t moaning into his former friend’s ear, urging on his own assault.

“That’s so good,” he whispered. “Yes… good… it feels so much better than before, right? You’ll feel so much better soon.”

Dimitri’s mouth fell open at his neck, and he panted openly against Sylvain’s collar, his hand moving ever faster. Each soft spoken word of praise spurred him, made him shudder and tremble, made him crush against Sylvain in his desperation.

“Please,” Sylvain gasped, his blunt, blood-streaked nails digging into Dimitri’s scalp, clutching him close. “Come for me, please…”

The motions were erratic now, Dimitri’s hand barely able to pump between them for how close he pressed. Each ragged breath grew louder, a sound between a growl and groan lost against the sliver of skin between collar and ear. His lips dragged, teeth grazed, saliva streaking in their wake.

And then he came suddenly, seeming to surprise himself, all but roaring against Sylvain’s neck. The crush was suffocating, everything overwhelming, and Sylvain helplessly moaned in response, as if he had reached his own end, the sound just short of a sob. He couldn’t help how he shivered beneath Dimitri, how his hair stood on end, how he clutched and clawed at him the whole way through, their voices reverberating off the stone into the winter sky.

And then the pressure was gone, only Dimitri’s iron-grip on his gambeson holding him in place at arm’s length. The cold air rushed between them and Sylvain’s whole body twitched and shivered as it surrounded him. He was dazed, mind melted, hands shaking awkwardly before him, unmoored. Dimitri was looking at him, eyes crawling over him from top to toe, examining him with seeming newfound clarity. He relaxed his grip, letting Sylvain sag again, and his nostrils flared. His expression was impossible to read, and in a moment he was gone, disappearing back into the cathedral’s hall.

Sylvain slowly slid to the ground once more, the trembling moving up his arms until his whole body shook, shivering in the cold. Dimitri’s fetid stench clung to his hands and he scrubbed them against his clothes, trying to clear them of the filth, whatever it was. It wasn’t as if he could return in these clothes, not with cum smeared across the front of the dark fabric, ground in by Dimitri’s desperation. Obviously, he didn’t care about his own disgusting breastplate, and by morning, it would either dry and flake off or attract dirt and dust enough to be just another strange stain added to the rest.

How many of his weird stains started this way?

He couldn’t think about that anymore. He had to hide what had happened. Dimitri was on his own now.

Slowly, Sylvain got his feet beneath him again and pushed himself upward, guiding himself with his hands. He was dizzy, the world tilting around him in a sickening way. He looked behind himself when he was able to take a step away from the wall, taking the smears of blood into consideration. The ruins of Garreg Mach were full of such displays, they had noticed them dotting walls and floors everywhere, showing Dimitri’s roaming path of destruction. Would anyone notice this one was fresh?

He gave it a test wipe with his forearm and the blood smeared more but did not fully lift from the stone. He didn’t have the strength to scrub it, so he decided to leave it. There was no reason to think it was his, anyway, or there wouldn’t be once he was done.

The cathedral was empty be the time he made his way back into it. He lingered against the wall, looking at the great moonlit expanse before him that he would have to cross unaided. There was no sign of Dimitri, or at least not one he cared to decipher from the other signs of Dimitri, so he took a deep breath and a few shaky steps, letting his momentum carry him to the pews. He braced on them as he passed, then to the great doors of the hall that he had blessedly left ajar. He managed the bridge with his momentum, and spared only a moment to consider raiding the infirmary for first aid. It was uncertain aid, though, and the stairs were not worth trying to scale without knowing if it would be worth it. No, it was better to keep moving, to follow the gentle slope down toward the stables, where he knew his tack waited, and where he knew a vulnerary to be packed.

The horses were uneasy, the stale smell of rot and blood keeping them from sleeping despite their exhaustion. He crept into the stall his mount waited within, shushing it softly as it nosed him. His limbs felt like lead and he couldn’t linger to soothe it just yet, finding his abandoned saddlebags and rooting through them for the bottle. It was full, thankfully, and he uncorked it with shaking hands, nearly fumbling it into the hay beneath him.

The amount of time that passed, he couldn’t be sure of. He could feel the cold setting into his bones, his horse nudging him every so often to urge him up again. He didn’t nap, exactly, shivered awake too often for that, and though the vulnerary helped his symptoms, it certainly couldn’t stitch the gash in the back of his head shut. It did get him back on his feet, though, and that was the most important thing. He needed enough clarity to keep going, and they were tailor-made for that.

Sylvain finished the last of the potion, setting the bottle on the shelf beside his saddle to remind himself that it needed to be replaced before they moved on. As the dawn had not yet broken, he lingered to reassure his horse, to speak softly and thank it for caring for him. He promised it a treat in the morning, then slipped back out as he’d come.

There was a vague fear that filled him as he moved through the monastery, his mind clear enough to worry about encountering another person on his path. He didn’t fear Dimitri, moreso Felix, who refused to sleep without knowing he was also going to sleep, who may have gotten up once Ingrid was more soundly settled and gone looking for him. He watched for any sign of movement, lingering on each rat that he saw in the shadows until he was fully certain he was alone before resuming his walk.

The laundry facility was stacked with old bedding and clothing that was too caked in blood and filth from their sortie to be used again. The one of the great tubs was full of water, they had done that much, but with the sun setting and the firewood moldy, they had all agreed to focus instead on food and interim sleeping arrangements.

Sylvain found the flint and steel, using it to light a lamp for his slow trudge back and forth across the room. Wood, lye, the huge wooden paddle for stirring the laundry, the board he knew he would need to rub the stains out on, and one formerly clean blanket, left abandoned on the shelves to wrap himself in. He sat in the circle of light the lamp provided, building a fire he hoped would suffice for now.

He needed to take a small detour.

The baths were cold and stagnant, a layer of algae clinging to the tiled sides, dirt and debris covering the bottom. He didn’t need a soak in the frigid, half-frozen muck, but he did need soap for himself while the laundry boiled. He would bathe there, where he could warm a bucket of water on his meager fire. There was a momentary thought to jump into the vat, but as reckless as he was, blinding himself for a quick dip was a bit much. There was no telling how much of the residue had already reactivated with the sitting water.

He grabbed a washcloth, using it as a satchel to collect soap remnants that had begun to crumble as the oils in them dissipated. He wandered into the changing rooms on his search, peering around for abandoned toiletries, eager to be done with this task. It was there he caught sight of himself in one of the dingey mirrors and froze in his tracks, horrified that someone had happened upon him. It took a few long moments to recognize himself, bloody and stained as he was, hair twisted and held by the unknown filth on Dimitri’s glove. His mouth twitched, pulled askew in a strange way that betrayed his inner turmoil. He hadn’t seen himself like this in so long, dried blood flaking on his upper lip, clothes rubbed and torn, cum-stains across his front, hands shaking at his sides. The longer he stared, the more he lost of the world around him, his breath pluming from his mouth in shorter, faster bursts. He could feel the panic settling in, the desire to scream building in his throat, and then, for a split second, he saw Miklan step out of the shadows behind him, twisted and rotten, reaching for him.

Sylvain whipped around, the washcloth turned into a makeshift sling, sending several half-formed bars of soap flying into the darkness. They exploded on impact into a great wave of white dust, tendrils reaching for him in lieu of his brother, the ghost gone as quickly as it had appeared.

He panted, staring as the soap cloud moved toward him, desperately searching for a figure within it that would prove he wasn’t going crazy.

No, he wasn’t going crazy. He was fine. He was letting Mercedes get in his head. It was stupid, childish fears let run amok. He was a man, had been a man for a long time, and this was ridiculous. He just needed to calm down, focus again, do what he knew needed to be done. He had to be washed and clean before the others woke and came looking for him.

Breathe.

Slowly, Sylvain turned toward the mirror, finding his gaze in his reflection, the flickering lamplight reflected in his honey-coloured eyes. There. That was normal enough. He scrubbed beneath his nose with his sleeve, knocking as much of the blood from his skin as he could. The fabric still stunk of Dimitri and he felt the shiver of repulsion crawl across his skin. He retched, his trembling fingers working at the ties of his gambeson, almost frantic to get it off. It was peeled away shortly, the blood and sweat-stained shirt below quick to follow. His boots were next, then his trousers, and soon he was completely naked, skin blanched snow-white in the cold. He looked back to the mirror, poring over himself again. Naked, mussed, but as normal as he could be.

How ridiculous. It took only half an hour to freeze to death if you were naked. Miklan told him that once as they climbed into the mountains, following some trail known only to him. It was a good thing they were bundled up, he said. It will take hours to freeze to death, he said. Hours longer than Sylvain had been left there, thankfully. The sobbing struggle to get home kept him warm enough to survive while the search party tracked him.

He shivered violently as the soap-cloud touched his skin, surrounding him like the blizzard, obscuring everything around him. He stumbled forward, bracing himself as his hand met the wall, his gaze never faltering. He let his forehead touch the cold mirror, condensation spreading where his breath met the glass.

Breathe.

Calm down.

Sylvain took a deep shuddering breath, then another, forcing the panic from his lungs. He licked his lips, trying to clear his mind, trying to chase away the ghosts that lingered in the walls. Mercedes insisted that ghosts could tell if you were scared, hunted more fervently as your sanity waned. It seemed true enough, so he need only soothe himself to escape. He had to stop entertaining them, feeding into them with their own legends. He had to separate himself, just like he had always done.

His fingers slowly crossed the fiery tuft of hair leading down from his navel, brushing against his cock where it waited, cold and small before him. He let his eyelids flutter for a moment, his fingers working him as he knew best, but they were icy, frigid, and it was no time at all before the intrusive thoughts began anew. His spear-calloused hands were too close, too corpse-like, and he jumped suddenly, searching his own face in the mirror, then behind.

No, no more ghosts. Glenn was surely a better fantasy, if the dead were required, but he could allow no spirits tonight. He was alive, alone, and fine. Completely, and totally fine.

He tugged at himself again, eyes slowly lowering to his reflection, to his scarred arm as it crossed his equally marred torso, to where his hand gripped his cock, half-hard despite it all. It was trained well, it did as it was told, and as he rubbed it, it grew rosy and slick as always. He shivered, but in pleasure, in relief, all the night’s hallucinations soon to be tucked safely away, not to bother him again. No memories of people who were no longer around, no Miklan or Glenn or Dimitri to plague him, no past to ensnare him, just the future that leashed and led him.

Sylvain pushed back from the mirror, taking himself in as a whole, eyes scanning his body as he worked his cock. He was attractive, strong, capable when he wished. He had grown up well, though he’d often tried to the contrary. He was handsome, even mussed, even blood-flecked. Some people found that all the better, in fact. He was a total package, a prize to be fought over and eventually won after this war was over, if he bothered to live that long.

Disgusting.

And yet he shivered, his knees buckling for a moment as his heart skipped and his cock flushed. He could see the warmth spreading across his chest even as his breath plumed against the glass. So well trained, even though he wanted to fight against it. There was inevitability he had to account for, responsibility he had to ensure he could take, just like his beading cock, who had to perform admirably on his wedding night. Just a stud horse, flaunted to entice, bred to highest bidder, producer of proud, strong colts who would follow in his footsteps. Quick and painless, over with as soon as possible. This was reality, terrifying and grotesque, ghosts need not apply.

He panted and moaned softly, a sound not unlike a sob, the quiet wail of one trapped in a nightmare, and his hips bucked into his palm, hot and slick against the chill in the air. The soap storm was calming, the lamplight flickering against the stone and tile, the real world once more in focus around him. He met his own gaze again, his cheeks flushed now too, his breath hitching as he neared his end. He found it easily, just like always, wasting himself spitefully on his reflection.

It was enough, for now. His skin prickled with pleasure, his racing heart and ragged breath calming, all attributed happily to his orgasm and nothing more. The endorphins replaced the adrenaline, the emptiness around him peaceful, finally, truly alone. Just himself, Sylvain Jose Gautier, Heir of Ruin, the last line of defense from the invaders on all sides.

He felt so weak, staggered as he pushed back from the wall, the result of a good come, surely. He collected his clothes and washcloth, bundling them into a towel with a few strategic knots. He hunted quickly as the chill settled onto his clammy skin, finding one more former bar of soap and escaping with it and his laundry.

The fire had gone out but was relit easily, hidden embers fueling it from within. He huddled beneath his moth-eaten blanket until it began to warm the laundry tub, finally burning well enough to be left alone. His bath was cold and perfunctory, scrubbing himself with his washcloth satchel of soap flakes just to be clean, untouched, fresh and new. That was the only way to end an orgasm, after all.

He managed to fasten the blanket at his shoulder as a makeshift cloak while the tended the tub, moving back and forth on the scaffold as he stirred the cloth inside. He could only do so much before exhaustion set in and forced him back to the fire. He stoked it once more before bundling himself within the blanket, dozing fitfully beside it.

Morning found Sylvain along with his abandoned comrades, though he was soundly chastised for making them worry. It felt... good, normal. He apologized with a lopsided smile, and Ingrid renewed her scolding when she realized he was nude beneath the blanket. Felix could only shake his head.

“At least he made himself useful, for once,” he muttered, watching as Annette climbed the scaffolding to peer into the tub, already rolling her sleeves to begin pulling out the soaked linens.

Sylvain laughed at that and agreed, gently fingering the split on the back of his scalp and the scab that had formed over it. He resolved to cut himself helping cook later to get Mercedes to use a little magic, hoping all of his old tricks still worked so many years later.

If there was one thing he was good at, it was this.


End file.
